Thursday, March 23, 2006
Paths Of The Dead
First, some non-funny business:
I went through this morning, as all bloggers must from time to time, and pared down my blogroll. It pains me to do so as many of the ones I removed were formerly excellent blogs, some of which were instrumental in guiding me with a gentle hand and plenty of lube into full blog-manhood.
In all, I removed 11 blogs from my roll. The criteria I used to decide who got cut were 1) Blog no longer exists (either a 404 Error page or clearly disappeared and taken over by someone else) 2) No updates for 5-6 months or 3) Blogger's last post suggested that we should all politely go out and make something of our lives because we weren't going to be finding any distraction/entertainment there anymore because, goddammit, they quit.
If you see your blog's link missing from the lists over on the right-hand sidebar and you are NOT, in fact, dead or SO past this blog-thing, please let me know and I will re-add you immediately. Please be assured that I am mortified at the oversight and my own presumption, etc.
The good news is that I am now taking applications for new links! Space available! Inquire within!
The only one I haven't deleted that I should have is Heightened Thoughts. That blogger said he quit, but he is a known habitual liar and a coward. I suspect him to come crawling back to us at any moment.
Though many have fallen by the wayside, I do continue to occasionally add new blogs to the blogroll (hello, Melissa!). What I'm saying is that despite rumors to the contrary (mostly started be me, like, yesterday) the Bucket is alive and well and thriving, still slop-full of a frothy, miasmic soup of biological and organic material capable of supporting life.
Pops' Bucket: STILL Not Unlike Manure
Now, on with your regularly scheduled non-funny writing...
In case it isn't clear yet, events of the last few days have put us in a somewhat reflective mood over here at Pops' Bucket Global Headquarters. If you walk around the corporate campus (my quaint suburban tract house) and run across any member of the editorial staff (the twelve Guatemalans who live chained in my attic with only a typewriter to work on and a pickle jar to relieve themselves in... I will admit they often get the purposes of the two crossed) you will notice a kind of spaced-out, disengaged malaise. Maybe it's the existential break that is precipitated by things like new sudden exposure fostering an atmosphere of deep philosophical reappraisal and personal reordering of priorities; or maybe it's dehydration after a nasty bit of food poisoning they got from the tainted tuna I fed them. If I've learned anything from recent days, it's this: one pickle jar is not nearly enough for twelve people.
For me, it's a little different. I'm the boss. The big-man. The chief. Or as my staff affectionately calls me, "Chinga Tu Madre". Heavy is the head that wears the crown, you know. I don't have the luxury of lolly-gagging around, letting my thoughts wander outside of the Now; I have a product that needs to be delivered to the good people of the internets. Wishy-washy hippie introspection is something I can't afford. You let your guard down and next thing you know your whole writing staff have slipped their shackles and are trying to kick out the bars on the windows. I'm very proud of the fact that in my workspace, my staff is the only collection of illegals trying to get BACK To Guatemala. I do my bit for the fight against illegal immigration.
I will admit, I've allowed myself to be a little distracted lately. The air of contemplative self-examination is infectious. That or I've got mono from the maid again. Either way, I find myself craving some quiet time where I can just sit and think.
Whenever I have a rare chance to sit and think, it always means the same subject: ninjas.
You thought I was going to say "porn" didn't you? But porn isn't something you think about. Porn is something you live. It's a lifestyle.
Ninjas you have to think about because they can neither be seen nor heard. It's tough to have a conversation with someone whose whole modus operandi is to catch you unawares.
When most people think about ninjas, they probably just think about how cool it would be to BE a ninja. Me, I can't help thinking that a ninja's life must be a sad and lonely one. The only people you meet in the course of your work are people you're going to silently murder with a poisoned dart from a blow-gun or a throwing star to the jugular. No time to chat, no conversation. Just hours and hours sitting--alone--in a bush or a car trunk or a filing cabinet or whatever waiting for your target to show. Sure, every once in a while a bunch of your fellow ninjas get together to jump through some of those paper walls they have in old-timey Japanese houses in order to be "killed" in Tom Cruise movies, but that's not real ninja-ing. That's not the essence of the job. That's just nice work if you can get it.
What I'm saying is there is no water-cooler in the ninja world. Who do you talk to about last night's episode of The Sopranos? The answer is: nobody. You put on your ridiculous black pajamas, the hood with the eye-slit to see through, the boots with the camel-toe, load up on weapons and smoke-balls-of-disappearance and then you go out and kill people. Man, what a bleak life.
Odds are right now that in your immediate field of vision--yes, I'm talking to YOU--there are at least 2 ninjas, undetectable, invisible, waiting. Maybe they're waiting for you. Or maybe they're waiting for the mailman or a co-worker of yours or the guy who drives the lunch truck... whatever. I'm asking you to do them a favor and talk to them. You can't see them and they will not--cannot--talk back. Just tell them about your day or the weather or whatever. It doesn't matter. Just talk.
I bet--I just bet--that the interpersonal contact might just cause a single tear to run down their black-hood-covered cheek. And then if you ARE the target, well, they may be moved to kill you quickly and painlessly. Think of yourself if nothing else.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 6.4